Page 87 of My Lucky Star
His brown eyes bore into mine, making my heart thump in my throat. “You being here is a miracle.” He bent down to kiss my nose. “Besides, I pay other people to deal with milk and laundry.”
“What a charmed life.” My nose tingled. I couldn’t stop smiling.
“We can have any kind of life we want. Anything you want.”
“Would you give it all up to do laundry and buy milk with me?” The words tumbled out before I could catch them. Examine them. Cancel them. Because they held a truth I had to hide.
Cem frowned. “Is that what you want?”
I shook my head. “It’s a theoretical question. Nobody would give up what you have. The money. The opportunities... Of course not.”
He froze for a moment, his forehead wrinkled, staring at something to my side, then rolled back onto his side of the bed, releasing a deep sigh that turned into a yawn. I yawned, too.
“I’m sorry. I think the jet lag is catching up with me again.”
“Me, too.”
***
IDIDN’T REMEMBER FALLINGasleep, but it must have happened quickly. Werewolves and laundry piles featured in a restless dream that lingered when I woke up to the brilliant sunshine. Midday sunshine. This jet lag was going to be a killer.
Sleeping under a skylight felt a lot like sleeping outside, except for the lack of wind. I climbed out from underneath a blanket I didn’t remember covering myself with, noting Cem’s muscular arm strewn across my pillow. I’d been sleeping on his arm.
I left him sleeping and tiptoed downstairs. Tarik must have sneaked in while we slept since the fridge was stocked with every grocery item imaginable. I popped two slices of bread in the toaster and fried a couple of eggs.
I eyed the Turkish tea kettle, which looked like two kettles stacked on top of each other. I’d already failed at making him tea and didn’t want to relive the embarrassment, so I turned my attention to the fancy coffee maker. The digital screen guided me through endless steps: Empty the drip tray – water tank almost empty –insufficient beans, until it relented and produced a small espresso. By the time I finished making the second one, Cem appeared, his bed hair brushing the doorframe as he entered the kitchen in his boxer shorts.
“Put some clothes on or I’ll have to ogle you,” I warned, handing him the coffee.
“Ogle away.” A gorgeous grin lit up his face as he stared at me over the rim of his coffee, muscles on his torso rippling as he swallowed.
“Do you even drink coffee?” I asked. “I don’t know how to use the tea kettle.”
“I’ll show you one day.” His eyes still on me, he took a sip of the coffee and winced. “Any chance you have those sugar packets in your pocket?”
I glanced at my oversized T-shirt. “What pocket?”
My eyes followed the tensing and flexing of his muscles as he shifted, forgetting to blink. I took a sip of my coffee, but edged a little closer, letting my other hand brush across his six-pack (or was it an eight-pack?), right down to that V-shape above his waistband. He’d turned up in boxer shorts – how could I help myself? “Did I mention I ogle with my fingers?”
His abs shook with laughter. “Am I allowed to do that, too, because I’d happily ogle you out of that shirt?”
I took a deep breath, again trying to memorize the vision in front of me. One day, I’d be married to someone like Felix, trying to fatten him up enough so his ribcage didn’t show, and I’d need this image. I needed the memory of this moment, as vivid as possible. I closed my eyes.
“You don’t need your eyes for ogling?” He asked.
“Nah. I’ve burned the image of you on to my hard drive, permanently. Thank you, sir.” I removed my hand and opened my eyes. “Eggs on toast?”
“Yes, please!” Cem grabbed the plates and we sat at the table.
We ate in silence, his eyes hardly straying from me, serious and probing. My cheeks warmed under his gaze, even though I didn’t understand why he had to stare at me like that. Finally, he swallowed the last piece and spoke in a soft voice. “Why do you look at me like that? Like you’re saying goodbye?”
“I’m not saying goodbye. I made you breakfast.” I pushed a crumb around my plate with my fingernail. I wasn’t used to how my nails felt when they were longer, the sound they made. It wasn’t me.
“You look at me with that... wistful sadness and I hate it.”
“Wistful sadness? I think you have been reading your mom’s romance novels.”
He didn’t laugh. Instead, he stared at me with such intensity my insides flipped, and face flushed with warmth. “No jokes, Aria. Please. Tell me the truth.”
